


Rizzle Kicks

by Sali_Mali



Series: Nick and the demon spawn [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sali_Mali/pseuds/Sali_Mali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short continuation of my Nick/Harry mpreg in which Harry gets home from America and there is cabbage and chocolate and other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rizzle Kicks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lottiem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lottiem/gifts).



> This is a gift for lottiem, as a thank you for leaving me the longest and quite possibly the most enthusiastic comment I have ever received on any fic ever. Thank you! I hope you enjoy this extra bit.

Nick’s officially gone to bed by the time Harry turns up at Aimee’s. And by gone to bed, he means climbed into the sofa bed Aimee made up for him before she went out and half dozed off while watching the end of a Heston Blumenthal vegetable special. He’s frowning at Heston’s broccoli ice cream and wondering if the slight nausea he’s feeling is due to his _condition_ , or because the ice cream looks like frozen vomit, when he hears the beep of the back door lock releasing and footsteps in the kitchen. 

He’d looked up the LA flight earlier, so it shouldn’t really be a surprise when he tilts his head back to see Harry standing in the doorway, still in his coat and beanie, a huge bag slung over one shoulder, yet somehow it is. He looks impossibly tall from this angle, a bit more tanned than when he left, and just _real_ and solid in a way Nick had forgotten in all the drama of the week. It feels a little un-nerving.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly when Nick just stares at him. He looks exhausted, and a bit awkward, just hovering there, and that makes Nick awkward, and just... there’s too much awkwardness. 

“You coming in then?” Nick says, a bit louder than is probably necessary, because he refuses to be weird around Harry of all people. “Heston’s making broccoli ice cream.”

Harry starts moving forward when he speaks, stops, then looks at the telly with a strange expression on his face. It quickly turns into a full on grimace. “That looks like sick, why would you want to eat that?”

Nick grins, delighted. “My thoughts exactly, Harold. You should have seen his mushroom sponge finger.”

Harry snorts out a rather undignified laugh (Nick finds it as charming as he always does). “No thanks.” He lets his bag slide off his shoulder and pulls off his beanie, coming round to the far side of the bed where Nick is propped on the pillows he filched from Aimee. For a moment, he can’t seem to make up his mind whether he’s standing, sitting or getting in, until Nick shifts over, pulling back the duvet to make room. He looks relieved. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be on the sofa.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, watching Harry kick off his trainers and wriggle out of his jeans and coat, leaving him in just a grubby looking t-shirt and black boxers, an unfairly attractive combination. “Technically this _is_ the sofa, so don’t think this means you’re off the hook.” 

“I s’pose that’s fair,” Harry says, a little sheepish, as he starts to crawl in, then promptly reverses back out to retrieve his bag. “Oh yeah. Hang on... I brought you something.”

Nick tries to pretend he’s not actually that interested (he is) as Harry roots around in his bag, only to straighten up and present him with...

A bloody _enormous_ toblerone.

“I got it for you in Duty Free while I was waiting in LA. It was the biggest one I could find.” He holds it out like it’s a proper gift, all serious-faced, and Nick kind of wants to start laughing hysterically because of course this is his life. Most people get sensible careers and they get married and then pregnant like proper adults, and people buy them flowers and cry all over them (from his experience). He gets accidentally knocked up by Harry Styles and gets a sympathy card off Aimee, his dad gruffly offering to childproof the flat and a sodding toblerone the size of his arm. On the plus side, he’s fairly sure Finchy cried – although that may have been from despair rather than overpowering joy.

Harry nudges him with the box, frowning uncertainly now. “Do you want it or not?” 

Nick takes in his earnest expression and the fact he’s just flown back from America – having probably been yelled at first, and by someone far scarier than Matt Fincham – but still found time to buy him the chocolate he asked for, and blames the slightly overwhelming feelings that result on his new hormones. He grabs the box, making sure to roll his eyes for good measure. “Course I do. It’s the only reason I wanted you to come back.”

Harry looks pleased, even as he says, “Pretty sure you didn’t want me to come back at all actually.”

“Yeah, well, I’d forgotten about Duty Free, hadn’t I,” Nick mutters. He starts unwrapping it immediately, just for something to do that doesn’t involve having the talk he can practically feel looming over them.

Harry settles down next to him, sitting cross legged with his back against the headboard and the duvet pulled over his lap. He clears his throat, “So...”

“Do you want some chocolate?” Nick shoves the box practically in his face, and Harry has to push it away before he can help himself to the tiniest bit, looking sideways at Nick like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “How was your flight?” Nick adds quickly.

Harry sighs, and picks a bit of foil off his chocolate. “Boring. Long. Same as usual.” He hesitates. “There were some paps at Heathrow. Dunno what they were doing there this late, if I was spotted at LA or whatever, but, yeah, they got a few photos, shouted some questions. I didn’t say anything. But... you know.”

Nick does. It’s sort of the paparazzi’s job to put two and two together and Harry rushing home by himself is a bit obvious, even by their standards. “I don’t suppose it will make much of a difference now.”

“Yeah?” Harry says it like it’s a question.

“Not unless you’ve changed your mind on the flight over. About going public I mean.” He’s not sure if he hopes he has, or not. He thinks it’s probably not, today gave him a taste of doing this on his own and in the spotlight and it wasn’t pretty.

“No,” Harry says immediately. “Just. I was a bit bossy on the phone. I didn’t really let you have much of a say.” He looks apologetic, and a bit embarrassed, and Nick smirks at him.

“It was quite hot actually. You should tell me what to do more often - maybe not while Finchy’s in the room though.”

Harry pulls a face, flushing a little in the light of the telly and Nick stuffs some more chocolate in his mouth so he’s not tempted to just jump him instead. Unfortunately this means his mouth is busy, and Harry takes full advantage. “I phoned Fincham, you know,” Harry starts, “when you weren’t answering your phone and I was freaking out in my hotel room.” Nick just chews, and then chews some more, and maybe this is why Harry got him such a huge bar in the first place. “He was really nice. Told me you were just panicking and that he’d talk to you for me. I was so worried, you have no idea. Well maybe you do, you must have been freaking out more than I was.” 

Nick swallows his chocolate (at last) but can’t do much about the guilt. He should have known Finchy’s little talk didn’t come from nowhere. “Sorry,” he says, and he finds he really does mean it. He knows he can be a thoughtless shit sometimes, people tell him often enough, but he tries not to be with the people he really cares about.

Harry reaches out to pick up his hand where it’s lying on the duvet, twining their fingers together. “That’s okay, I don’t blame you. I hope Fincham was alright, he sounded a bit...manic, on the phone.”

Nick shrugs. “You know Finchy. He yelled at me, got all pointy pointy and then scheduled meetings and started planning my maternity cover. Paternity. Whatever.” The thought of being replaced on his own show bothers him more than he’d like to admit, and perhaps it shows because Harry tightens his hold.

“It’ll only be for nine months though, right? Not forever.”

“I suppose so.” Harry’s looking all worried again, so Nick adds, “Maybe I won’t go back at all, maybe I’ll just sponge off its millionaire father.”

This time, it’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes, though he looks ridiculously fond. “Oh yeah? How would you survive without an audience?”

“Easy. I’ll just follow you on your tours, be as annoying as possible and bask in your reflected glory.”

“You do that anyway.”

Nick pulls his hand free, narrowing his eyes. “ _Or_ I could just sell my tragic story to the papers. I’d make a fortune.”

“You don’t have a tragic story,” Harry says, smirking.

“That’s what you think. Knocked up in my prime and abandoned by a teenage popstar. Destitute, we were forced to move in with producer, Matt Fincham, and take a job on Magic FM, presenting late night lo—” He’s cut off rather abruptly when Harry kisses him. It’s their first proper kiss since the day before Harry left for the States and it only takes seconds for Nick to melt into it, letting Harry press him back against the headboard before he pulls away, his smirk softened into a smile, and his hand coming to rest on Nick’s hip like it belongs there.

“Besides,” Harry says, as though the kiss were the first half of an unassailable argument against Nick’s tragic back-story, “Fincham would never let you move in, so you’re stuck with me.” His tone is light, teasing, but the look in his eyes is not and Nick swallows, feels a fluttering in his stomach that he can’t, in all honesty, blame on anything else for at least another couple of months.

“You’re being bossy again, Styles,” he mutters, letting Harry kiss him once more before he sits back, ruffling his stupid popstar hair and sweeping it to the side, looking all too pleased with himself.

“You like it though.”

Nick tends to like most things Harry does. That’s probably what got him into this situation in the first place. “Shut up.”

Harry grins and settles back, taking Nick’s hand again and holding it in his lap, stroking softly over the back with his thumb. On the telly, Heston appears to be flambéing a cabbage. It’s hard to tell, really, since Nick missed most of the episode, but whatever.

“It’s just so weird,” Harry says, after a few moments quiet.

“I know,” Nick says, “Why would you flambé a cabbage? Like, who wants to eat a vegetable someone set on fire?”

Harry stops stroking his hand and fixes him with the why-the-fuck-am-I-with-you look again and Nick realises. “Oh. Not talking about the cabbage then. Sorry.”

Harry bites his lip, just looking at Nick for a long moment, before he says carefully, “Nick, are you... I know this was a shock, and unplanned – obviously – but, do you want this? Us, and... you know, a baby. Because if you don’t, that’s...” he swallows, “that’s okay too. I‘ll go along with whatever you want.”

Nick can see he doesn’t mean it. Not the part about going along with whatever he wants of course, Harry would do that for him and hold his hand and all that stuff because that’s the kind of person he is, but Nick can see from the painful intensity of his gaze (and the frankly painful grip on his hand) that he would be devastated to have to do it. It’s lucky then that he doesn’t have to, although Nick loves him for asking. “I know you would,” he manages, voice scratchy (hormones again. Obviously), “but you’re stuck with us too.” 

Harry’s face lights up like a bloody Christmas tree at the ‘us’, but he still asks, “Are you sure? You don’t just have to say that because—”

Nick claps a hand over his mouth, exasperated. “Shut up, Harold. When have you ever known me to be that self-sacrificing? I’m the one who’s going to get fat ankles and mockery in the press, I wouldn’t go through that just to spare your feelings, you ego-maniac.” Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners so Nick knows he’s smiling. “Anyway, I like babies. Nice babies – and ours will obviously be beautiful and talented and rich,” Harry’s eyebrows climb a little, “and that’s just from me,” Nick finishes. “It’ll probably just get your weird nipples.”

At that, Harry pulls his hand away and punches him on the arm – then immediately looks horrified at himself and starts apologising. “It’s alright,” Nick cuts him off, because they’re most definitely not starting that. “You can still punch me, I won’t break, you know.” At that point, his brain catches up with his mouth. “On second thoughts, never punch me again. I’m very delicate, my bicep’s directly linked to my stomach.” 

Harry shakes his head, but a smile is breaking through like he can’t help himself. “You’re going to milk that, aren’t you?”

“For the next five and a half months, pretty much, yes.”

Harry stills, blinks at him a few times, then says, “Five and a half months? Is that... The papers didn’t say how long. You’re over three months gone already?”

“So the doctor said.”

Harry leans back, looking amazed. “Three months. That’s... I wonder when it happened?” He looks at Nick like he expects him to instantly supply him with the date. 

Nick just looks back, unhelpfully. “I dunno, do I? It’s not like I keep a record in my diary of our sexual encounters. Dear diary, today Harry did this thing with his tongue, I think he might fancy me – what shall I do?” He helps himself to some more chocolate. “Let’s face it, there’s a good chance we were wasted anyway.”

“Nick!” Harry sounds scandalised. “We can’t tell the baby we were wasted.”

Nick shrugs. “Fine, I’ll make something up involving rose petals and candles, shall I? Scar it for life.”

Harry elbows him in the side, and this time he doesn’t look horrified about it. “We will _not_ , and stop calling the baby an ‘it’”

“It is an ‘it’, mostly.” Nick wipes his chocolatey fingers on the duvet. “I googled it, I think I have a packet of OXO cubes bigger than your demon spawn at the moment.” This time, he moves too quick for Harry’s elbow to catch him, but not quick enough to miss his tragic facial expression. “Oh god, alright. What do you think we should call the tiny undeveloped fetus, Harold? Beyonce?”

Harry scowls, it’s unfairly adorable. “You call your bed Beyonce. Also, no.”

“Kendrick?”

“You’re not even taking this seriously.”

“Frank?”

He gets a dark look for that one, which Nick actually enjoys quite a lot. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having the power to make someone jealous. Not good-looking, lusted-after-by-millions someones anyway. He grins, just to be annoying, and then it hits him, and it’s _perfect_. It’s so perfect, he kind of wants to text everyone he knows and maybe tweet it and get it put on a t-shirt as soon as possible. “Wait wait... I have it. Rizzle!”

Harry looks at him like he’s insane. “What?”

“No, listen – because when it’s bigger, and starts moving about, it’ll be Rizzle Kicks.” He waits, grinning hugely, but Harry just stares at him. “Rizzle _Kicks_ , Harry, get it? Like the rappers.” Harry flops forward, apparently trying to smother himself in the duvet, and Nick pouts. “You’ve changed, Styles. You used to be fun.”

“Can I gag you for the next six months instead?” Harry mumbles, still face down.

“That’s a bit kinky, even for you,” Nick says, and Harry makes a _urgh_ sound and rolls to one side so he can just about see Nick through the curls falling in his eyes. 

“How about we just call it the _baby_ , instead of ‘it’?” 

Nick sighs. “You’re so boring.” Harry reaches out and pokes him in the knee repeatedly until he relents (and catches Harry’s fingers in an iron grip). “Ow! Fine. We’ll call it the baby, stop poking me, you monster.”

Harry looks smug. “And we should play it music and talk to it and stuff.” Nick raises an eyebrow and Harry says, defensive, “What? I googled too.” He sits up, looking serious. “It’s got to be good music, though.”

“I reckon I’ve got The Wanted’s new album around here somewhere.”

“Okay, now you’re just being annoying. _More_ annoying.”

“I could sing to it?” Nick suggests innocently.

Harry glares. “Or you could _talk_ to the baby.”

“I am not talking to it, it doesn’t even have proper ears yet.” When Harry goes to protest, Nick says, “At least if I was singing, people would think I’m just happy. If I’m talking to my stomach, they’ll think I’m crazy.”

“No they won’t, pregnant people do it all the time.”

“Well I am not doing it,” he says firmly, ignoring Harry’s moue of disapproval for once. “We are not turning into one of those couples, Harold. At least not until it has ears.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He heads off further protest by yawning hugely and trying to look as sleepy as possible. It’s not _actually_ that hard because he’s been awake since 5am and it’s now pushing one o’clock in the morning and it’s been one of the more exhausting days of his life, all things considered. It seems to work, anyway. Harry shuts up, and looks a bit concerned, as if only just noticing the time, which makes Nick feel vaguely guilty until he realises he has a radio show to present in 5 and a half hours and paps to face and yeah, suddenly he is feeling pretty exhausted.

“We can talk in the morning,” Harry says at last, picking bits of foil and what’s left of the toblerone off the bed to drop on the floor somewhere. 

“To each other,” Nick clarifies, because he enjoys being a twat.

Harry pokes out his tongue but otherwise ignores him, turning the telly off and wriggling under the covers to lie next to Nick. He shifts around uncomfortably until Nick gives him one of his pillows and then curls up with a sigh, fingers brushing against Nick’s t-shirt.

“When do you have to go back?” Nick says quietly, when the only sound is their breathing and the tick of the clock in the hallway. 

“Day after tomorrow. Uh... today. You know what I mean.” He’s silent a moment, then, “What do you want to do? Do you want me to pick you up from work?”

It would be as good as an announcement, Nick realises. Now is hardly the time, because he really should sleep, but he has to ask. “Harry, have you thought what this could mean for the band? Not everyone is going to like it. Not sure if even most people will, to be honest.”

Harry shifts closer, pressing a kiss to Nick’s shoulder through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “I know that. I talked to the lads before I left and they understand. I love my job, but I love you too and a baby is permanent, more permanent than the band. It’s the right thing to do.”

Nick lets that settle for a moment. He’s fairly sure he’s just been bested in emotional maturity by a nineteen year old. _Again_. “You might as well pick me up then,” he says at last and Harry rolls all the way into him this time, curling one arm over his hip, lying flush against his back. Nick frowns. “Why am I the little spoon, exactly?”

Harry yawns in his ear, then settles. “Because you didn’t move quicker.” His hand drifts to rest on Nick’s stomach.

“Don’t you dare start stroking my stomach.”

Harry stills, and Nick can feel the huff of air on the back of his neck before he says, sulkily, “I wasn’t going to.”

“Save it, Styles. No stroking and no talking.”

Harry rests his hand just above the waistband of Nick’s pyjama bottoms but doesn’t move it further. “Fine,” he mutters.

“Night then, Harold,” Nick pats his hand. “Thanks for impregnating me with your demon spawn and all.” 

This time, the huff is one of quiet laughter and Harry’s arms tighten around him as he presses a kiss against the back of his neck. “My pleasure. I think. Night, Nick.”

Some time later, Nick’s on the verge of sleep, warm and comfortable and surrounded by Harry when he feels it, the tiniest movement of Harry’s hand over his stomach and a whisper. “Night, baby.”

“Oi. I heard that.”

The End.


End file.
